


Becoming

by ContrEeri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContrEeri/pseuds/ContrEeri
Summary: Harry is many things: he is the Boy-Who-Lived, he is the Chosen One, he is the Savior of the Wizarding World. He is also half Black. He is Black and he is made of magic. Harry doesn't quite know, though, what being Black means or how he relates. His journey is long, and some days are harder than others.





	1. Discovery (or Just Another Day in the Hospital Wing)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very personal piece for me, as I, myself, am half Black. I wanted to explore some things, and I think in as much as this is about Harry, it's also about a shared experience that I think a lot of mixed kids go through. I'm writing from a very personal place and while some of it is very different from my experiences, it's still very close to me. Please be aware that when reading this, it is heavy. This fic deals with identity, internalized racism, institutional racism, and I'm sure there will be more heavy themes but this is a work in progress. I'm basically just writing little pieces here and there. There isn't any end goal in mind, so I have no clue how many chapters will be in this. It could just be five, it could be fifty (although, I doubt it'll be fifty, but who knows?), it could end up being a series. I don't know. I honestly don't even know what other characters will pop up (most likely Ron and Ginny, definitely Luna, possibly Draco Malfoy) and I have no clue if there will be any pairings, but probably because I think it's important to talk about love and especially Black love and interracial relationships and also sexuality. So....yeah. I hope everyone enjoys!

The first time Harry Potter realised he was Black he was eleven years of age, sitting in the hospital wing and staring down at the first photo of his father he'd ever seen. Finding out he was Black, after years of staring in the mirror at olive skin he'd thought was just sun-kissed, after years of having his broad nose made fun of, after the horrors of Aunt Petunia cutting off all of his hair was overshadowed by the weight of the fight he'd just come out of. 

Harry had stared down at the photo of his father, and it was as though Hagrid were telling him he were a wizard all over again. But then the weight of this knowledge was lost on him, lost to the evil lurking in the world, lost to the innocence of age, lost to the first time he had ever seen his parents. Eleven years and he'd never known just how green his mother's eyes were, just how _much_ hair his father had. He'd never known what they looked like, never known that his mother's skin was pale like the silk pillows Aunt Petunia didn't allow him to touch; he'd never known that his father's skin was so deep and rich it glowed as though it were covered in stardust. He'd never known that their love had made his skin the subtle tone of days spent in the sun. 

Aunt Petunia had often complained that Harry never burned, while she and Dudley always did. She often complained when the summer came and his skin turned a soft brown from the sun's gentle caress. Harry had never understood why she found his skin so offense. He'd never known that he was the son of a Black man. 

How had he never known? 

The people he'd met said he looked like his father. _Everyone_ said he looked like his father, but no one had ever told him that his skin was a mix of his mother and father. It was like being a wizard—no one had told him he came from two different worlds, no one had told him he was made of magic. He was a Black boy who could do magic, but no one had ever told him. 

And when Harry had looked at that first photo of his father he didn't see himself. He didn't know what he saw because he'd never belonged. What did it mean to be Black? He was just Harry. Just Harry, all over again. 

What did it mean to be Harry? 

At eleven years old, just a little over a month shy of his twelfth birthday, Harry didn't know what it meant to be Harry—he certainly didn't know what it meant to be Harry Potter, the Chosen One. How could he possibly know what it meant to be Black? 

Especially when the only family he had were white? 

Blackness eluded Harry. 

But even as Harry tried to hide from it, it found him. Time and again, it always found him. 

It would simply take Harry many years to find it.


	2. Identity Crisis (or How Hermione Saves Harry Potter From Himself)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a crisis. It's the first step towards accepting who he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty heavy--at least, I think so? It deals a lot with internalized racism and identity issues that come from being raised by white family members when you're mixed (though there's less focus on that for this chapter), not having a community to connected with, and not being able to see your race within yourself. Anyway, I might not have an update for a little while now, partly because I don't have the next chapter really started, though I do have an idea about what that'll be about, and partly cause I'm working on another fic and have a fashion show to prep for. Again, this isn't a story that I have any real end goal in mind, so updates are kind of going to happen when they do. Thanks again for reading!

Harry was not good with feelings. He blamed it, later in life when he was old enough and wise enough to put words to the truth of his childhood, on the abuse and neglect. He blamed it on living in a cupboard for most of his formative years. 

When he'd become a wizard—because he saw it as becoming more than he saw it as uncovering what had always been—he hadn't felt like a wizard. Not at first. After all, he hadn't known what it meant to be a wizard, what it meant to do magic, and quite frankly it had all seemed like a bad joke. And then he'd stepped into a new world, seen the shops and the people with their funny hats, ridden a rickety cart deep under London to a vault filled with gold, and then finally his wand had chosen him and he'd _felt_ for the first time—it was feeling, raw and unimaginable and glorious and he felt so alive. The magic coursed through him like electricity; it was a living, breathing thing curled up inside him; tethered to his soul and rushing through his veins. And he'd understood in that moment that he wasn't just a wizard, he was magic. 

Harry didn't feel that way about being Black. There was no stepping into a new world or holding a wand for the first time. It had been looking at a photograph of his farther and simply seeing that his father had been Black. 

And Harry couldn't apply it to himself, because he didn't feel Black. 

At least, not at first. 

It took Harry ten years to feel Black, because there was no wand for him to flick and feel it all rushing through him. It took Harry ten years to know that it was a part of his soul, as much as his magic was.

Harry blamed this disconnect on his aunt and uncle, but also on the war that had claimed him before he could walk. He blamed it on the snide remarks about his wide nose and the people who always wanted to touch his 'wild' hair. He blamed it on the girl's in their year who had whispered that Hermione was pretty “for a Black girl” after the Yule Ball and on Pansy Parkinson's even nastier remarks about Angelina and Hermione. He blamed it on the Wizarding world's sense of community stretching only to magic and never once farther than that, and how if you tried to say you were a Black wizard then someone inevitably had to butt in with “aren't we all just wizards?”; and he blamed it on the Muggle world, too, for it's quiet reminders that Black was undesirable. 

Undesirable No. 1. 

That's what Harry had been during the war. He was a Black boy made of magic with green eyes and “wild” hair and a scar across his forehead, and he had been Undesirable No. 1. 

He'd always been undesirable. He hadn't been wanted or loved as a child, had he? First it was the Dursley's, who had kept him in the dark, figuratively and literally, pushed into the smallest space they could find for him, determined to lock him and his magic away. Eleven years of neglect and abuse, of insults and jibes about who he was, with not a shred of proof that he was loved and wanted—Harry was less than undesirable, he was loathed. And then for a brief shining moment, he was a hero. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, and he had a world that welcomed him with open arms—right up until he'd proven to be his own person, not an ideal. He'd been ostracized and vilified for a year because he'd spoken the truth no one wanted to hear. He'd been called a liar and an attention-seeker and all manner of things, and suddenly it felt like he was being shoved back into that cold, dark cupboard. He'd stopped being their precious Boy-Who-Lived until he'd become useful again, when he could be sacrificed on the altar of their salvation. And he'd learned that people were fickle, changeable creatures, and felt bitterness creep in because all he'd ever wanted was to be loved. They'd loved him until they hated him, and then they'd loved him again. And then he'd become Undesirable No 1. 

And Harry didn't want another reason to be undesirable. He didn't want another reason to be different. He just wanted to be Harry, 'Just Harry' again or maybe for the first time in his life. 

He didn't think he could be Black and be 'Just Harry'.

Hermione had been hurt when he'd told her this. Ron had been off with George, while Harry and Hermione had stayed behind in their shared flat. Harry had been doing a lot of staying in since the war. Hermione always tried to talk him into going out, to experience the world, to talk to Ginny—anything to bring a little life back into his eyes, anything to make him Harry again. And he'd looked at her and said, “I don't know how to be Harry,” because he didn't and because he'd died, but he hadn't told her or Ron that, so they couldn't possibly know why his eyes always looked so dead. 

Hermione had tried to coax him, to tell him who he was, tried showing him photos from the good days they'd had during school, tried to remind him of things he loved. And he'd gotten angry, angrier even than he'd been in fifth year. He'd shouted and nearly torn the photo of his parents that she'd taken out because he didn't know who he was and he didn't even _know_ those people who'd brought him into this world only to die for fickle, changeable people who loved you one day and then hated you the next. 

“I don't know who I am!” he'd shouted. “I can't be 'just Harry', can I? I always have to be something more! I can't even be Harry without people telling me I look like my dad or that I've got my mother's eyes! Maybe I don't want to look like him or be told I've got her eyes anymore! I just want to look like me! I just want to be me, Hermione! But everyone has all these expectations and they say these things or they look at me—what am I supposed to do!? Become an Auror? Be their precious hero again until I cock it up and they all hate me? I can't do it, Hermione! I can't be everything—I can't be the Boy-Who-Lived and the Chosen One and the Saviour and James' Potter's son and Lily Potter's son—I didn't even know them! I didn't even know he was Black until I was nearly twelve! And what am I supposed to do with all this!? How am I supposed to be me when everyone wants me to be whatever they want me to be?!” 

“Harry, please, I'm just trying to help,” she'd said, attempting calm even as hurt flashed across her face. “I don't want you to be anything but who you are. I—you don't have to worry about titles with me and Ron, you know that.” 

“But I have to go out, I have to be me again,” he snapped. “Don't I? 'Harry, you seem so distant. Harry, you look so tired. Harry, why don't you smile? Harry, have you talked to Ginny? Harry—Harry—Harry!' I AM SO SICK OF BEING HARRY POTTER!” 

Hermione had started to cry, but he'd been so angry he didn't even notice. 

“I hate being Harry Potter! I hate it! All the stories, all the speculation, all the titles and the adoration and the lies—and all the fucking press about my life! I can't do anything anymore! I just want to be me! I don't want any other identities, any other titles! I don't want to be a wizard or a hero or Black or al—”

And Harry had stopped abruptly because Hermione was sobbing and he'd almost said something that would surely break her heart. But then he'd realised, he'd broken her heart the moment he'd said he didn't want to be Black. Shame coiled in him like he hadn't felt in years. He didn't actually want to stop being a wizard, but he resented it sometimes, now that he'd died and come back. He resented the way they'd loved him and then cast him off so easily. He'd resented how quickly he could become undesirable to them. But even with all the resentment and bitterness, he knew he was magic because he'd felt it and no matter how hard things were he loved it. But being Black—he'd never felt connected, never felt like he belonged, never felt love for this part of him that had been a secret longer than his magic. He didn't see what the point was in having to label his race.

“Do—do you think b-being Black i-is bad or s-something?” Hermione had sobbed, and Harry hated himself for what he'd done to her, for what he was doing to himself. 

“N-no, Hermione. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“I-I mean it's a-all right f-for you, I suppose!” she said, her voice high and strained. “You can sort of g-get a-away with it, c-can't you? I mean, everyone knows your d-dad, but in the Muggle world—I mean, you don't have to tell them. You c-could hide it, just like you can hide that you're a half blood wizard—”

“Hermione, I-I'm sorry—”

“S-sorry?” she said, her voice breaking. “You don't even know—you've never had to be proud of your heritage, have you? You've never had to wear it like armor to protect yourself. I was t-tortured for being a Mu-Mud—”

“Don't call yourself that!” Harry had shouted, a desperate ache in his chest, but Hermione kept going.

“—blood! I was tortured for having dirty blood, and do you know what I was called in school before I went to Hogwarts? Do you know what they said about my hair and my skin and my nose? Do you know what it's like to always be _dirty_?” 

He'd been made fun of for his nose and hair, but he hadn't understood it until later. It had hurt, it had left its mark, but he knew it couldn't measure up to what Hermione had endured. He was Black and hiding, Hermione was Black and she could never hide. He hung his head in shame. “I'm sorry, Hermione. I—I just want...I just wanted to be—to be just Harry, for once in my life—”

“Aren't I 'just Hermione'?” she'd asked and it was a revelation. 

He'd stared at her, so confused and lost because it should be that simple—why wasn't it that simple? Dying had made living this life, living as himself so much more difficult. But Hermione was Black, she was Muggle-born, she was a hero, she was the Brightest Witch of Their Age. Hermione had her own crosses to bear, her own expectations to live up to, her own hurts to heal from, didn't she? 

“O-of course you are,” he choked. “I just—I just don't know how to be—how to be Bl—I mean, you've always been like this—I mean you've always been—” Suddenly he couldn't say the word. He felt as though he weren't allowed to. 

“Black,” Hermione finished for him. “I've always been Black, Harry. And so have you.” 

Harry had swallowed back his own tears. He didn't want to feel this twisting guilt, this gnawing sense of loss and confusion. He didn't want to feel the question 'Who am I?' like a punch to the gut. He didn't know who he was because he'd always been the Boy-Who-Lived or a burden or the Chosen One or Undesirable—always undesirable. He just wanted to be Harry, but he didn't know who Harry was after all the trauma of a life lived to die. 

Hermione must have seen the turmoil written on his face because she'd reached out, pulling him into a hug. “I know, Harry. I know.”

“I—just—I don't know what I am anymore, Hermione,” he'd cried. It had been the first time he'd cried since the night he'd walked to his death. It had taken him six months to cry. He hadn't even cried at the funerals that had followed that final battle. 

“Shh,” Hermione had whispered. “I know things haven't been easy, but you're only hurting yourself more by denying this part of yourself. Being Black doesn't make you any less you, Harry. It makes you more of who you are. You wouldn't be you without it. You couldn't be 'just Harry' without it.” 

He'd cried into Hermione's hair, her soft hair that everyone said was 'bushy' and that people always tried to touch. She'd held him as he cried, as he'd apologized over and over. She accepted his apologies, even though he felt he didn't deserve her forgiveness. But she'd shushed him quietly when he'd tried to say as much, and eventually he'd cried until he couldn't cry anymore. Hermione understood this part of him, understood that he had so much to learn about this aspect of what made him Harry. Hermione always seemed to understand so much. He didn't know what he would do without her. 

“How do you do it?” he'd asked her, laying with his head in her lap, while she ran fingers through his hair, comforting them both. 

Hermione had smiled sadly, tears still staining her cheeks. “Do what, Harry?” 

“Be you. Everyday you're just—you're you. You don't shy away from it, even when the papers talk about you. You don't care how they talk about your hair or—or any of it.” He couldn't bring himself to mention the many back-handed insults the _Daily Prophet_ had printed after the war, all the times someone had published an article amazed that someone like Hermione could be such an adept and brilliant witch. Hermione had always brushed it off. She was the brightest witch of their age, so what if she was Muggleborn? So they thought her hair was bushy? Well, she knew better. So what Rita Skeeter had called Hermione a Black Beauty? Or that people sometimes looked at her and Ron sideways. Hermione was stronger than that. 

But she'd shaken her head at Harry's words. “I care, Harry. Of course I care. But I can't let them see it. I can't let them know. I love my hair, but it took me years to learn that. Hearing everyone call it 'bushy' all the time....” She sighed. “I love my hair, I love my skin, I love my nose—but that took _time_. I had to learn so much before I could love myself as I am. I love my Blackness, Harry, and I love yours too. But it wasn't always easy, you know? My parents tried to teach me, tried to raise me to be proud of what I am but there are just some things they can't do. I came home from school crying so many times before Hogwarts, and then when I found out I was a witch—oh, Harry, I thought I'd entered this magical land! It was so wonderful, and I thought I could be amazing! I thought...I thought people wouldn't look at my skin and see—they wouldn't say all the nasty things they said to me in school. But then it turned out that the magical world wasn't so different. My parents tried, you know? They really did. They always tried to protect me. But they couldn't protect me from racism and they couldn't protect me from the blood prejudice that started the war, because it's—it's everywhere, Harry. It's out there in the world, and it's even within ourselves. The world tells us to hate ourselves so much that it's hard not to sometimes. 

“But I've gotten through it. And I know that you can too. You've done so much already, Harry. I know you can do this.” 

“I—I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm s-so sorry the world is—I'm so sorry I—” 

“I know, Harry. Just...just try, okay? For me? And for yourself.” 

Harry took Hermione's faith in him and tried. 

He tried to see himself as Black, to really feel Black, to feel like he belonged. A wand would have been easier, but Hermione had helped, as she always did. And finally, Harry stopped hiding. Finally Harry accepted, for the first time in his life that he was Black. He had a long way to go, but acceptance was the first step. 

That acceptance made him feel so much lighter and he looked at photos of his dad in a new way. 

Finally, he could see himself in his father. They had the same nose, the same jaw-line (although Harry had his mother's cheekbones), and even though his hair wasn't the same texture as his father's he saw the similarities there too. He was a Black man made of magic, and he was _proud_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some very subtle call outs in this. The idea that Harry can't be 'just Harry' if he's Black. It's something I used to see a lot within like cosplay for instance. If a person who was Black cosplayed a character who wasn't, then they were the "Black [version of character]" where as a white person could cosplay that same character, and despite that character not being white, they were never the "white [version of character]". Much as I love the trend of race bending, I also just find it frustrating that in media the default is white unless otherwise specified, that you can't be "just" anything if you're a person of colour and that we have to call it race bending for interpreting characters as people of colour when their race isn't even stated. Blah, anyway, I hope that my exhausted rambling makes sense lol


	3. Breakups (or The Complications of Dating While Black)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating isn't easy to begin with. Interracial dating, however, is another can of flobberworms that Harry never realised it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very difficult subject at times. As the child of an interracial couple, I obviously support interracial relationships, but as a Black person, I also feel like dating white is a scary and daunting thing. I'm always secretly worried that someone will say something or do something that is anti-Black. There are just so many things that can happen, that can be said or done... I wanted to explore some of those complications here. This is for [pocpotterweek](https://pocpotterweek.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, though initially it was supposed to be for fave ship, that chapter will come later--possibly even tonight or tomorrow as it is mostly written, so instead this is for Monday's theme Lightning Era!

Harry fell out of love with Ginny Weasley not long after she had finished school. 

He had thought Ginny would be his forever love, he had thought that he would never fall out of love with her, never grow out of love, never want anyone except her. She was beautiful and stubborn, willful and strong, smart and brave and so beautiful. 

Somehow, it wasn't enough. They fell out of love before they'd broken up, but neither had noticed and they kept trying. 

He'd missed out on a year of her life: a year of trauma and heartache and her own self-discovery; and then he missed out on her final year at Hogwarts and the distance grew between them. She had missed out on his own trials and tribulations: the hunt for the Horcruxes, the fear of being caught; and then she missed—had always missed—the pain and confusion of being a Black boy, now a man, made of magic who'd never known he was Black, who'd never known what that meant or how to love it. 

It wasn't a journey he could ever share with Ginny. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so hard to bare, perhaps they could have made it work had it not been for all the other things they hadn't shared. After all, Ron and Hermione were perfect; Ron listened to Hermione's pain, was sensitive to her struggles, nurturing of her pride, supportive of her in every single way. 

Ginny had felt that it was another thing separating them. 

“Why does your race even matter?” she had said, screamed. It had been their third row that week. “What's that got to do with anything? You don't even look Black!” 

Harry didn't think Ginny was racist. She was fair and just, she believed in goodness and equality. She _wasn't_ racist. 

But she didn't get it, and she didn't try to get it. 

“I'm Black,” he'd snapped. “So I look Black. How can I not look it if I am it?” 

“Oh, come off it. You know what I mean!” 

“No, I don't! What do you mean?” 

“Merlin, Harry! Can't you just—can't we just—stop. I just—this was never an issue before! Why is it suddenly an issue now?” 

“It's always been an issue, Gin! You just never noticed it.” 

“Well it's not my fault you always fucking shut me out! Can't hunt Horcuxes with you, it's just too dangerous! Can't talk to me about what happened in the forest that night, it's just too painful! Now it's 'You wouldn't understand. You're white' as if that has anything to do with our relationship!” 

Harry had stared at her, dumbfounded. “How could it not have anything to do with our relationship? I'm Black, Gin. What do you expect? Me to just—not be Black?” 

Ginny had paled, shaking her head. “No, Harry, that's—I just... I don't get why it's so important. You go off and talk with Hermione about it, you shut me out like you've always done. I want to understand, Harry. I do.” 

“I've tried to tell you,” he'd said, pained. “I told you just last week about that woman who'd touched my hair—”

“I mean your hair is messy,” she'd tried to tease. Harry had wanted to scream. 

“That's what I mean, Gin. You just—you don't get it. Hermione gets it—”

“Well then why don't you date Hermione! Fuck it! Obviously I'm just never going to _understand_ you.” She scoffed and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door. Harry had gone to Ron and Hermione's, had told them everything. 

He and Ginny were over. 

“She didn't mean it, mate,” Ron had tried to console him. 

“I know,” Harry said, even though he didn't. Maybe she had meant it, maybe every time she brushed off something he said about his race she meant it. He didn't know if he could trust her anymore. “But it's just—she doesn't even want to listen.” 

“She's never been very good at listening,” Hermione said. “I'm sorry to say. I love her, but she's—well it's just the way she is. I know she cares, but it's just—”

“It's not enough.” Harry hated it. Ginny wasn't racist. She didn't hate him or judge him for his Blackness, and in some ways he almost wished she would. It would be easier. He could be so much angrier. Instead he felt hollow at her lack of empathy, at her disinterest in this part of him. 

“How come you guys are so perfect?” Harry had asked, implored. He felt desperate and confused. He wished his father were still alive so forcefully it ached. Had Lily ever said anything like that to his dad? Had she ever brushed him off when he'd told her about the racism he faced? 

Ron shrugged, casting a questioning look at Hermione. “I listen better than Ginny does?” 

“Ron has his failings,” Hermione said gently, patting Ron's hand. “No offense, Ron.” 

“None taken.” 

“But he works on them. No one's perfect, but he tries. Ginny just—she has this fantasy that you two will work but she isn't willing to put effort into it. She isn't willing to get to know you, because she thinks she already does. A lot of people who grew up hearing about you have that problem, but it's different for her because she actually knows you. Now she's faced with this person who isn't matching up with her idea of you, the person who's supposed to fill her every fantasy.” 

“We've had so many problems,” Harry admitted, fighting back tears. “This was just... I can't have her not care about this part of me when I'm only finally learning to care about it. I felt like—I felt like it didn't count—”

“She invalidated your Blackness,” Hermione said succinctly. Harry would never get tired of the way Hermione made him feel like he counted without even trying. Sometimes he worried that he put too much of this on her, that he expected too much of her. They always had; Hermione was smart and level-headed, understand and compassionate. She had a big heart and a big brain, and Harry and Ron had both relied on her so much. “Ginny's wonderful, Harry, but she can be a little self-centered at times. Give her some time.” 

Harry shook his head. “No. I'm—we're not getting back together. I can forgive her someday, but we're not going to make this work.” 

Hermione had nodded in understanding. Ron had sighed. 

“Mate,” he'd said heavily, and Harry had braced for the worst, for Ron to defend her and blame him. “If I'm being honest here, I think it's for the best. I really wanted us to be brothers, ya know? I mean, we are. We're family, no matter what, but I guess I kinda thought—well it doesn't matter. The point is, you two haven't been happy for a while. I know she's my sister, but she's not perfect. I don't want to see my best friend miserable just because I want to see my sister happy.” 

Having Ron's support had made it somehow easier to bear the breakup. Ron who could listen to Harry and Hermione talk about being Black even though he had nothing to contribute except righteous indignation every so often; Ron who'd had to face his own failings and insensitivity, and done it because it was right; Ron who knew he couldn't empathize, but still tried to sympathize; Ron who stood up for Hermione when it wasn't always safe for her to stand up for herself. 

If Ron, who'd once had the emotional range of a teaspoon, could be so sensitive, then Harry hoped Ginny would someday understand this part of him too. Until then, his life would not include Ginny. It had been a painful decision, but one that ultimately had to be made. 

Harry knew he needed more than what he and Ginny had had. He wasn't worried about finding it yet, but he knew that the next time he dated someone she would need to be someone who could understand all those things Ginny hadn't been willing to understand; someone who could connect with him on this level. It was too important to him, and it needed to be important to the person he loved, and if that meant he didn't date another white woman, then that was fine with him. 

His Blackness was simply not something he could compromise on.


	4. Desire (or Harry Hates Looking in the Mirror)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being considered "Desireable No. 1" bothers him for a number of reasons, and not just because it reminds him of being hunted. Harry has never looked in the mirror and seen someone worthwhile to look at, and now he has to reconcile what he sees with what others see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a quick update. I've had this one written up for a bit, but it needed tweaking. It was originally going to go before the previous chapter, so this one is set prior to Harry and Ginny's official breakup. This is another heavy subject, but the next chapter will be more positive and lighthearted. The narration of this focuses on how Harry feels about his looks, so any comments about "big noses" that might have a negative connotation are because he's struggling with internalized feelings of anti-Blackness.

_**Harry Potter: Desireable No. 1**  
by Rita Skeeter _

_Harry James Potter, also known as the Boy-Who-Lived or the Chosen One, our savior and defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is_ Witch Weekly's _most sought after bachelor, which is why we've named him Sexiest Wizard of the Year. Currently single, though how long that lasts is anyone's guess, letters have been coming in begging this publication to do a spread—and I do believe they want the full order! However, despite winning this year's coveted title of Sexiest Wizard, Mr. Potter has refused to sit for an interview! Perhaps someone is a little self-conscious?_

_Without no interview or photoshoot, Mr. Potter makes history as the first winner of this award to refuse it. However, this doesn't stop him from being Desireable No. 1 the country over. But what makes him so deliciously irresistible? Is it his darkly exotic looks? The wild, untameable hair? Those gorgeous green eyes? His heroics are certainly legendary: tales from Hogwarts have been pouring in since May when Mr. Potter took down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named using the wand he'd claimed from former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, and a Disarming Charm._

_One has to wonder what Ginevra Weasley is doing, waiting around to reclaim him! Perhaps our dear Harry is heartbroken and in need of someone to comfort him! Well, there's quite a queue of witches forming, so Mr. Potter won't have to wait long for some tender loving care, but who will be the lucky lady who lands herself the hero of the Wizarding World?_

_And what more is there to know about Harry Potter? (see page 5)_

Rita Skeeter had debuted Harry's newest title three months after the war. 

He'd hated the issue on site. The cover featured a photo of him that had been taken only hours after the final battle, still dirty and tired and unsmiling; the title of the issue declared him Desireable No. 1 in big, block letters; and then there had been the small little blurb in place of an interview, followed by pages of stories submitted to _Witch Weekly_ by people he'd gone to school with but never spoken to. It was strangely disconcerting after being Undesirable No. 1. Harry didn't think he liked it, but he supposed it was better than being undesirable—after all, he'd always been undesirable. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had drilled that into him, and even now, with friends and the love of a family that wasn't his by blood, with the adoration and gratitude of every witch and wizard this side of the Atlantic, Harry doubted his worth. 

In some ways though, the strangest aspect of it all was the notion that people found him attractive. He'd hated the way the magazine's feature had talked about his looks, focused on his “darkly exotic” features, made allusions to Ginny's ownership of him, but being angry was easy. Being desireable, being attractive was not so easy. 

He was still too skinny and far too short, his hair never did what he wanted it to do no matter how many times Hermione tried to help him with it, his lips were too thick and his nose was too big—a fact that the other students in primary had made sure he never forgot—and sometimes he thought his forehead was too big too. 

After the issues publication, Harry had been forced to think about his appearance more by the simple fact that it had been so forcibly and unexpectedly brought to his attention. He already spent enough time thinking and feeling disconnected from himself, from the person in the mirror, from the photos of his father and the knowledge of 'I'm Black.' But now when he looked in the mirror he also tried to see the good looks the article claimed he had. He spent nights in front of his mirror, trying to piece together each part of his face into one whole, desirable person. 

He would press his finger against his nose, pushing it down and remembering the taunting of his peers during primary school. 

_“Flat nose, flat nose! Careful, he'll suck you up with his big nostrils!”_

He puckered his lips, pressed them into a thin line, relaxed his mouth. All he could hear was Cho Chang's voice telling him, shortly after their first and only kiss, _“I never realised, but you have big lips for a guy.”_

Cho hadn't meant it to hurt, but it had. He didn't want to kiss her again after that, except he'd still liked her so he sort of did at the same time. 

He tried to flatten his hair, remembering with a visceral anxiety that made his chest feel tight the time Aunt Petunia had shaved all but his bangs off, muttering the entire time. 

_”Ugly, unkempt mess. Should have shaved it the moment I found you.”_

“Going to spend all night staring?” his mirror had asked him. 

Harry had sighed. “I don't particularly want to,” he'd told it. “Don't like what I see.” 

“Nonsense! You're a handsome young man.” 

Harry had cast a long suffering look at himself. “You're probably charmed not to be able to insult me.” 

The mirror had huffed. “Hardly. I may barely count as animate, but I certainly know a good looking man when one stands in front of me for hours staring at himself!” 

Harry had laughed, feeling no less unattractive, but grateful for his mirror's timing. He needed to stop trying to break each minute detail of his appearance down before it made him feel worse, before it drudged up darker and darker memories. 

“You sure you're not just trying to get rid of me cause you're sick of lookin' at me?” he'd teased, turning to leave. 

“Dear, no one could ever get sick of looking at you,” his mirror had purred just before Harry had turned out the light. 

The article had given Harry a difficult time, but he had reasoned it would pass. They were all just grateful, he'd told himself, refusing to look in the mirror for a week after that night it had attempted to comfort him. It was only gratitude that made them stare. 

“No it's not, mate,” Ron had said when Harry had explained a month later and, instead of the issue passing into history, it had been reprinted with photos from a memorial event he'd attended and with an article morning his changed relationship status. A witch had accosted him in Diagon Alley on his way to meet Ron, George, and Ginny for lunch. Harry had barely managed to get away from her without drawing his wand. 

“I hate this,” he'd groaned. 

“I can always bat-boogey anyone who touches you,” Ginny had offered, lacing their fingers. 

Harry had smiled tiredly. “Thanks, Gin.” 

“It'll pass,” George had said, shrugging. “You and Gin are back together. Give it another month.” 

“I just don't get it,” he'd groaned. 

“What's not to get?” Ron asked, through a mouthful of food. “You're fit, mate.” 

Ginny had raised an eyebrow at him. “And here everyone thought it was her and Harry who'd had a sordid love affair, but all this time it was actually you two.” 

Ron snorted. “I'd be a lucky bloke by all rights, but I serious. I mean, I'm as straight as a wand, but Harry's fit and we all know it.” 

“'Cept me, apparently,” Harry had said mulishly, his face burning. “I appreciate you sayin' so, but really you don't have to.” 

“He's not,” George and Ginny had chimed. 

“Honestly,” Ginny had said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “We wouldn't lie to you, and Ron would _never_ have admitted he finds you attractive if he didn't.” 

“If I thought you were an ugly sod, I'd tell you,” Ron had said cheerily, raising his glass. “That's what friends are for.” 

Harry had wanted to believe them. They had no reason to lie to him, but years of hearing the contrary made it difficult. It wasn't until he talked to Dean that he started to understand, though. 

“I get it,” Dean had said one night. They'd been standing outside a Muggle pub, waiting for Seamus to arrive. 

“You do?” Harry had asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean had said with a shrug. “I got told my nose was too big, too.” 

Harry had felt that sinking sort of dread that crept up on him whenever he learned something knew about what it meant to be Black. “You mean...” 

Dean had nodded. “Yup,” he'd said, popping the 'p' at the end. “Hermione could tell you some of the things the other girls used to say to her, Lavender, and Parvati. They all got a little bit of it, but I think Lavender got it worse than either of them.”

“Lavender didn't have a big nose.” Harry had frowned, trying to remember. 

“That's cause she shrank it,” Dean had said, shaking his head sadly. “She'd copied Hermione in fourth year. You remember when Malfoy'd hit Hermione with that spell and her teeth grew?” 

“Oh.” 

The knowledge that they'd all been a bit desperate to change parts of themselves that didn't need changing was painful. Harry had felt almost sick thinking about it. How many people had made him feel ugly because his features didn't look white? How many times had someone made him hate his nose or his hair or his lips? And all this time he'd never understood what it had meant; he'd never realised why they didn't the way he looked because he hadn't know until he was eleven that he was Black, and then he'd struggled with the fact that he was ever since. He hadn't had time for self-discovery or self-love in the midst of war, and the consequences of that were that he had to wage his own internal war with himself. 

Seamus had arrived then, and the conversation had ended, but Harry had been left with a strange sense of discovery. 

When he'd gone home that night, he spent an hour standing in front of his mirror, poking at his face, touching his hair, making faces at his reflection. Finally, after his mirror had asked him exasperatedly what the hell he was doing, Harry had not been able to accept that he was attractive, but knowledge had settled in the pit of his stomach, a mass of knotted anxiety. 

The revelation that maybe he wasn't actually unattractive was stark and strange against a backdrop of painful memories. 

“Just trying to see what all the fuss is about,” he'd told his mirror before going off to bed. 

It would not be easy to unlearn all the things that made him feel ugly, but at least now he knew the root of the problem. After all, the only way to get rid of weeds was to get rid of the roots completely.


End file.
